


gaslight

by ferrassie



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-20
Updated: 2011-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:05:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferrassie/pseuds/ferrassie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood and metal against his mouth. Breath pursed behind his lips. Pushes his fingers down in quarter- and half-steps. He grinds his foot into the stage. His hands sweat. There’s no slow.</p><p>When he breathes out – all at once – all Yoann can hear is music. Their music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gaslight

**Author's Note:**

> written for issue seven of [cornerflag](http://community.livejournal.com/cornerflag).

"How're you feeling?"

Jérémy looks up at him. Taking in the way Yoann's arm isn't done up in a cloth sling, isn't resting against his chest under his coat. Not anymore. Trumpet in hand. That piece of paper in the other. His face goes flat.

Hugo gently brushes over the curve of Yoann's back, on that side.

"All right."

 

Blood and metal against his mouth. Breath pursed behind his lips. Pushes his fingers down in quarter- and half-steps. He grinds his foot into the stage. His hands sweat. There’s no slow.

When he breathes out – all at once – all Yoann can hear is music. Their music.

 

Hugo rests his glass on the rim of the snare drum. Sticks lying neatly across his lap. Intermission. The sailors smoke clouds worth of cigarettes, fogging out the back row of tables. Hugo takes another pull from his glass. A quiet action. His fifth in as many minutes. Yoann counts.

There’s a flag lain over one of the tables. Breton stripes, the where-he's-from. They ruin his night. Too many weeks spent broken with his parents.

 

"The boy can't play anymore. He’s washed up. Done."

Yoann stumbles his way into Jérémy's office. Hugo's fingers tense into fists for just long enough. Jérémy shoves him, this guy, in the chest and tells him to get the fuck out of his bar. Dishtowel over his shoulder and a line across his brow.

Hugo drops his sticks to the floor. Yoann sighs.

 

"Play it," he says, leaning over the lip of the stage. Arms swinging out. Yoann moves away from him. Towards Hugo. "Play it," he repeats, voice all sand and silt. Eyes steeled grey and out-of-sorts.

These men, they're awful and drunk.

"No," Yoann says. Trumpet against his chest. Poised, ready. "It's not worth listening to. So, it's not worth knowing."

Stir of the high-hats behind him. Hugo’s even-tempered, right up until the cymbal crashes come in.

 

It's hot and suffocating, this place. The piano and the girl are onstage. Yoann takes a drag off a cigarette caught in Hugo's fingers. Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder.

There's a swell inside of Yoann. Phantom notes. Filthy air and clean music in his lungs. Part of the ash on his tongue and the look Hugo gives him from behind the curve of his ear.

They make the worry surface.

 

Jérémy holds the blade to his face, skin pulled taut. Hugo, with the lather brush. Yoann tries to watch it all through his headache. The dusting of foam under Jérémy's nose goes with the right scrape of the razor. Heavy eyes and a sick in his stomach. Brass taste on his lips.

"We just needed a better crowd, that's all," Jérémy says.

Hugo washes his hands in a clean bowl of water. He doesn't look so sure. Tie undone around his neck. Can only look at that stretch of pink-white skin.

 

Straight to my head, Yoann thinks.

Hugo's laugh rings off the porcelain.

 

Dejan, he plays piano. Little melodies and big, grand sonatas. He practices to the sweep of the broom in Yoann's hand and the soft paper shuffle of Hugo counting banknotes. Jérémy asleep under the bar. He's good, but it's not the same. No beat. Hugo's control when he plays. All tight rolls. They go up his spine.

His phrases go back to the dust and the piano keys.

 

Yoann takes a deep breath. The water around his skin's going cold. Hugo sits on the side of the bathtub. Dressed in trousers and bare-feet. Pours more hot water from the faucet when he sees Yoann shiver. He runs a hand through Yoann's hair and tucks stray, wet pieces behind his ear.

"You are, you know."

Yoann looks back at him. Level and straight. He nods, but it hurts. Eyes slanting off, closing. Four in the morning and he can smell whiskey in the steam.

The bathroom door clicks shut. Hugo’s, "Just as good," whispered with it.

 

Room papered with the leftover smell of smoke. Yoann's back against the wall. Shirt, tie, socks, shoes. His teeth catch Hugo's bottom lip. Gasp. Eyelashes dipped low. His hands on Hugo's hips, fingers calloused and rough.

"I…" he says, but stops.

He needs him. All the way down to his toes. Lets Hugo kiss across the hollow of his throat, where his shirt has chafed his skin with sweat and starch. It burns. Feet shuffling across the floor. Tangled up together on the edge of the bed.

Hugo looks at him with clear eyes. Says, "I know," as he unbalances them.

 

Yoann plays until he's out of breath, mouth dry. Thirst thick in his throat. Brass of his trumpet gone hot in his hands. Tension and pain runs through every part of his back. Shoulders curved in. Yoann blinks at the lights. The clapping comes in one rush. Wave after wave after wave.

You are, Hugo's saying.

He hears himself saying it, too.

 

"Feel free to drink it in the street, you bastard!"

Yoann doesn't know if it's loud or just cutting, but it's all Jérémy. Grey hair at his temples, fight still circling through him. He pushes two empty bottles into the sink with a crash, with only a sweep of his arm.

Yoann comes around the bar. Holds Jérémy at the wrists. His body slackens little by little. He feels every bit like Hugo. Quiet and serious, but sure. Calming. Jérémy looks at him.

"Kid," he says, taking in the pieces and splinters of glass. His anger. "Come in early next time."

 

"I was off," Hugo says, sweat down his neck. Towel taken off a crate. Matter-of-fact. No blame. Yoann bites at the bottle-top of his soda. Hugo gives him a look. "I was." Confident curve of his shoulderblades under his shirt.

Yoann swallows the excuses he wants to make with a mouthful of fizz.

 

"Can you read music?" he asks, the new one on bass. Miralem.

Yoann taps out an easy key combination. "Does it matter?"

But, it does. A lot.

 

Hugo traces the dip of his stomach and Yoann sighs. Room hot and warm. Hugo settles his weight against him. Yoann's hand finds a place on his back. The radio on low. Mostly piano and bells until the saxophone kicks in.

But, it's out-of-time with the way Yoann's breathing. Completely. He can't control it. Pads of Hugo's fingers pushing between his ribs. Common time everywhere. The curve of Hugo's mouth just perfect.

 

He laughs and it hurts, it's coming from so deep down. Dejan doesn't try to get it. Yoann slides down to the stage. Practice hours. He needs to eat, sleep, and stop. Piano cluttering up his head. Tired. His laughter dies off.

He falls asleep in front of Hugo's kit as Dejan practices his scales. D-minor and a-major. Dark and then bright.

 

"More!" someone shouts. They shout.

More, more, more.

They've exhausted their entire playbook, almost. Dejan's still awake at the keys. Strain shows on Hugo's face when Yoann turns around. Only has the energy to play to him. Miralem rests all his weight against his bass's body. Jérémy smiles, tray in hand.

It doesn't feel the same.

 

"Not tonight," Yoann hears. Hugo and Jérémy's shadows visible on the floor. "I need a break." Hugo's voice weighted with total sincerity.

"It's not you.” Can see Jérémy shaking his head. "It's him." Knife cutting down against the wood of the counter. Rhythmic. "He should be the one asking."

The edge is there this time: "No, _I_ need it."

Final. The sound of the knife dull as it sticks in the block.

 

Coffee's put into Yoann's hands as he wakes up. Hugo hovering for just a moment. Windows open. Yoann watches Hugo shuffle around the room. Feet tapping against the floor, hands on his thighs. He whistles along between swallows of coffee and hot.

 

Yoann doesn't know what he's saying, it's all jumbled up together. Not French. Dejan holds his wrist with tight teeth, right up under his ribcage. Hugo kneels down beside him and Yoann steps back. Blood and the twist of bone making him sick. Hugo whispers slowly. Help. Cut into with Jérémy's drunken:

"I can fix it."

Everyone goes silent except Dejan, who starts repeating something new and just as pained. Doesn't understand. Hugo swallows and Yoann presses his face to Hugo's shoulder. He lets go of Dejan.

 

Jérémy posts a notice in the window, looking for a _pianiste_. Male. To start immediately.

 

There are bite-marks all over Yoann's back. Rough slide of Hugo's unshaven cheek. He can feel all of it underneath his shirt, his coat. Underneath the umbrella he's got in his hands, trying to find a newspaper boy. Wants Hugo to have something to read when he wakes up in the tiny bed that Yoann rents.

His collarbone throbs in the damp.

 

The concrete rushes up too fast under Yoann's feet. Hugo's arm around his shoulders, leading him. Memory guiding his fingers through the song. Mouthpiece to Yoann's lips. He plays loud, too loud for this time of morning. It feels like he's shaking buildings apart, but it's just his head. In his head. Flashes of hurt behind his eyes.

Hugo is singing, or at least Yoann thinks he is. Almost like he knows that this isn't a song you can do much more than hum to. Words-turned-vibrations against his hair. Yoann’s elbow angling just enough to knock against his chest, but he doesn't stop. Just lets it stutter with a laugh, instead.

 

They watch him play. One-handed. The other resting on his leg, bandaged thickly with tape. Yoann looks away, at Hugo. Looking back at him. The piece sounds hallow and sad with a single set of notes.

"He's just as good," Yoann says.

Hugo nods.


End file.
